Gavrilo did not spare himself; his breast worked like a bellows and his
arms like steel springs. The water foamed under the boat and the blue
trail that followed in the wake of the stern had become wider. Gavrilo
was bathed in perspiration, but he continued to row with all his
strength. After twice experiencing the fright that he had on this
night, he dreaded a repetition of it and had only one desire: to finish
this accursed task as soon as possible, regain the land, and flee from
this man before he should be killed by him or imprisoned on account of
his misdeeds. He resolved not to speak to him, not to contradict him
in anything, to execute all his commands and if he succeeded in freeing
himself from him unmolested, to sing a Te Deum to Saint Nicholas. An
earnest prayer was on his lips. But he controlled himself, puffed like
a steamboat, and in silence cast furtive glances at Tchelkache.
The other, bending his long, lean body forward, like a bird poising for
flight, gazed ahead into the darkness with his hawk's eyes. Turning
his fierce, aquiline nose from side to side, he held the tiller with
one hand and with the other tugged at his moustache which by a constant
trembling betrayed the quiet smile on the thin lips. Tchelkache was
pleased with his success, with himself and with this lad, whom he had
terrified into becoming his slave. He enjoyed in advance to-morrow's
feast and now he rejoiced in his strength and the subjection of this
young, untried boy. He saw him toil; he took pity on him and tried to
encourage him.
"Hey! Say there!" he asked softly. "Were you very much afraid?"
"It doesn't matter!" sighed Gavrilo, coughing.
"You needn't keep on rowing so hard. It's ended, now. There's only
one more bad place to pass. . . Rest yourself."
Gavrilo stopped docilely, wiped the perspiration from his face with the
sleeve of his blouse and again dipped the oars in the water.
"That's right, row more gently. So that the water tells no tales.
There's a channel to cross. Softly, softly. Here, brother, are
serious people. They are quite capable of amusing themselves with a
gun, They could raise a fine lump on your forehead before you'd have
time to cry out."
The boat glided over the water almost without sound. Blue drops fell
from the oars and when they touched the sea there flamed up for an
instant a little blue spot. The night was growing darker and more
silent. The sky no longer resembled a rough sea; the clouds extended
over its surface, forming a thick, even curtain, hanging motionless
above the ocean. The sea was calmer and blacker, its warm and salty
odor was stronger and it did not appear as vast as before.
"Oh! if it would only rain!" murmured Tchelkache; "we would be hidden
by a curtain."
On the right and left of the boat, the motionless, melancholy, black
hulls of ships emerged from the equally black water. A light moved to
and fro on one; someone was walking with a lantern. The sea, caressing
their sides, seemed to dully implore them while they responded by a
cold, rumbling echo, as though they were disputing and refusing to
yield.
"The custom-house," whispered Tchelkache.
From the moment that he had ordered Gavrilo to row slowly, the lad had
again experienced a feeling of feverish expectation. He leaned
forward, toward the darkness and it seemed to him that he was growing
larger; his bones and veins stretched painfully; his head, filled with
one thought, ached; the skin on his back shivered and in his legs were
pricking sensations as though small sharp, cold needles were being
thrust into them. His eyes smarted from having gazed too long into the
darkness out of which he expected to see someone rise up and cry out:
"Stop thieves!"
When Tchelkache murmured: "the custom-house!" Gavrilo started: he was
consumed by a sharp, burning thought; his nerves were wrought up to the
highest pitch; he wanted to cry out, to call for help, he had already
opened his mouth and straightened himself up on the seat. He thrust
forward his chest, drew a long breath, and again opened his mouth; but
suddenly, overcome by sharp fear, he closed his eyes and fell from his
seat.
Ahead of the boat, far off on the horizon, an immense, flaming blue
sword sprang up from the black water. It rose, cleaved the darkness;
its blade flashed across the clouds and illumined the surface of the
sea with a broad blue hand. In this luminous ray stood out the black,
silent ships, hitherto invisible. It seemed as though they had been
waiting at the bottom of the sea, whither they had been dragged by an
irresistible tempest, and that now they arose in obedience to the sword
of fire to which the sea had given birth. They had ascended to
contemplate the sky and all that was above the water. The rigging
clinging to the mast seemed like seaweed that had left the water with
these black giants, covering them with their meshes. Then the
wonderful blue sword again arose in the air, cleaved the night and
descended in a different place. Again, on the spot where it rested,
appeared the skeletons of ships until then invisible.
Tchelkache's boat stopped and rocked on the water as though hesitating.
Gavrilo lay flat on the bottom of the boat, covering his face with his
hands, and Tchelkache prodded him with his oar, hissing furiously, but
quite low.
"Idiot, that's the custom-house cruiser. The electric lantern! Get
up, row with all your might! They'll throw the light upon us! You'll
ruin us, devil, both of us!"
When the sharp edge of the oar had been brought down once more, harder
this time, on Gavrilo's back, he arose and, not daring to open his
eyes, resumed his seat and feeling for the oars, sent the boat ahead.
"Softly, or I'll kill you! Softly! Imbecile, may the devil take you!
What are you afraid of? Say? A lantern and a mirror. That's all!
Softly with those oars, miserable wretch! They incline the mirror at
will and light the sea to find out if any folks like us are roving over
it. They're on the watch for smugglers. We're out of reach; they're
too far away, now. Don't be afraid, boy, we're safe! Now, we. . ."
Tchelkache looked around him triumphantly.
"Yes, we're safe. Out! You were in luck, you worthless stick!"
Gavrilo rowed in silence; breathing heavily, he cast sidelong glances
at the spot where still rose and fell the sword of fire. He could not
believe that it was only, as Tchelkache said, a lantern with a
reflector. The cold, blue light, cutting the darkness, awoke silver
reflections upon the sea; there seemed something mysterious about it,
and Gavrilo again felt his faculties benumbed with fear. The
presentiment of some misfortune oppressed him a second time. He rowed
like a machine, bent his shoulders as though expecting a blow to
descend and felt himself void of every desire, and without soul. The
emotions of that night had consumed all that was human in him.
Tchelkache was more triumphant than ever: his success was complete!
His nerves, accustomed to shocks, were already calmed. His lips
trembled and his eyes shone with an eager light. He felt strong and
well, whistled softly, inhaled long breaths of the salt sea air,
glanced about from right to left and smiled good-naturedly when his
eyes fell upon Gavrilo.
A light breeze set a thousand little waves to dancing. The clouds
became thinner and more transparent although still covering the sky.
The wind swept lightly and freely over the entire surface of the sea,
but the clouds remained motionless, and seemed to be plunged in a dull,
gray reverie.
"Come, brother, wake up, it's time! Your soul seems to have been
shaken out of your skin; there's nothing left but a bag of bones. My
dear fellow! We have hold of the good end, eh?"
Gavrilo was glad to hear a human voice, even though it was that of
Tchelkache.
"I know it," said he, very low.
"That's right, little man! Take the tiller, I'll row; You're tired,
aren't you?"
Gavrilo mechanically changed places, and when Tchelkache saw that he
staggered, he pitied him more still and patted him on the shoulder,
"Don't be afraid! You've made a good thing out of it. I'll pay you
well. Would you like to have twenty-five rubles, eh?"
"I--I don't need anything. All I ask is to reach land!"
Tchelkache removed his hand, spat and began to row; his long arms sent
the oars far back of him.
The sea had awakened. It sported with its tiny waves, brought them
forth, adorned them with a fringe of foam, tumbled them over each other
and broke them into spray. The foam as it melted sighed and the air
was filled with harmonious sounds and the plashing of water. The
darkness seemed to be alive.
"Well! tell me . . ." began Tchelkache. "You'll return to the village,
you'll marry, you'll set to work to plough and sow, your wife'll
present you with many children, you'll not have enough bread and you'll
just manage to keep soul and body together all your life! So . . . is
it such a pleasant prospect?"
"What pleasure can there be in that?" timidly and shudderingly replied
Gavrilo. "What can one do?"
Here and there, the clouds were rent by the wind and, through the
spaces, the cold sky studded with a few stars looked down. Reflected
by the joyous sea, these stars leaped upon the waves, now disappearing,
now shining brightly.
"More to the left!" said Tchelkache. "We shall soon be there, Yes!
. . . it is ended. We've done a good stroke of work. In a single
night, you understand--five hundred rubles gained! Isn't that doing
well, say?"
"Five hundred rubles!" repeated Gavrilo, distrustfully, but he was
immediately seized with fright and quickly asked, kicking the bales at
the bottom of the boat: "What are those things?"
"That's silk. A very dear thing. If it were to be sold for its real
value, it would bring a thousand rubles. But I don't raise the price
. . . clever that, eh?"
"Is it possible?" asked Gavrilo. "If I only had as much!"
He sighed at the thought of the country, of his miserable life, his
toil, his mother and all those far-distant and dear things for which he
had gone away to work, and for which he had suffered so much that
night. A wave of memory swept over him: he saw his village on a
hill-side with the river at the bottom, hidden by birches, willows,
mountain-ash and wild cherry trees. The picture breathed some life in
him and gave him a little strength.
"Oh, Lord, how much good it would do!" he sighed, sadly.
"Yes! I imagine that you'd very quickly board the train
and--good-evening! Oh, how the girls would love you, yonder, in the
village! You could have your pick. You could have a new house built.
But for a new house, there might not be enough . . ."
"That's true. A house, no; wood is very dear with us."
"Never mind, you could have the one that you have repaired. Do you own
a horse?"
"A horse? Yes, there's one, but he's very old!"
"Then a horse, a good horse! A cow . . . sheep . . . poultry . . . eh?"
"Why do you say that? If only! . . . Ah! Lord, how I might enjoy life."
"Yes, brother, life under those circumstances would not be bad . . .
I, too, I know a little about such things. I also have a nest
belonging to me. My father was one of the richest peasants of his
village."
Tchelkache rowed slowly. The boat danced upon the waves which beat
against its sides; it scarcely advanced over the somber sea, now
disporting itself harder than ever. The two men dreamed, rocked upon
the water and gazing vaguely around them. Tchelkache had spoken to
Gavrilo of his village with the purpose of quieting him and helping him
to recover from his emotion. He at first spoke with a sceptical smile
hidden under his moustache, but as he talked and recalled the joys of
country life, in regard to which he himself had long since been
disabused, and that he had forgotten until this moment, he became
carried away, and instead of talking to the lad, he began unconsciously
to harangue:
"The essential part of the life of a peasant, brother, is liberty. You
must be your own master. You own your house: it is not worth much, but
it belongs to you. You possess a piece of ground, a little corner,
perhaps, but it is yours. Your chickens, eggs, apples are yours. You
are a king upon the earth. Then you must be methodical. . . As soon
as you are up in the morning, you must go to work. In the spring it is
one thing, in the summer another, in the autumn and winter still
another. From wherever you may be you always return to your home.
There is warmth, rest! . . . You are a king, are you not?"
Tchelkache had waxed enthusiastic over this long enumeration of the
privileges and rights of the peasant, forgetting only to speak of his
duties.
Gavrilo looked at him with curiosity, and was also aroused to
enthusiasm. He had already had time in the course of this conversation
to forget with whom he was dealing; he saw before him only a peasant
like himself, attached to the earth by labor, by several generations of
laborers, by memories of childhood, but who had voluntarily withdrawn
from it and its cares and who was now suffering the punishment of his
ill-advised act.
"Yes, comrade, that's true! Oh! how true that is! See now, take your
case, for instance: what are you now, without land? Ah! friend, the
earth is like a mother: one doesn't forget it long."
Tchelkache came to himself. He felt within him that burning sensation
that always seized upon him when his self-love as a dashing
devil-may-care fellow was wounded, especially when the offender was of
no account in his eyes.
"There he goes again!" he exclaimed fiercely. "You imagine, I suppose
that I'm speaking seriously. I'm worth more than that, let me tell
you!"
"Why, you funny fellow!" replied Gavrilo, again intimidated, "am I
speaking of you? There are a great many like you! My God, how many
unfortunate persons, vagabonds there are on the earth!"
"Take the oars again, dolt!" commanded Tchelkache shortly, restraining
himself from pouring forth a string of fierce oaths that rose in his
throat.
They again changed places. Tchelkache, while clambering over the
bales to return to the helm, experienced a sharp desire to give Gavrilo
a good blow that would send him overboard, and, at the same time, he
could not muster strength to look him in the face.
The short conversation was ended; but now Gavrilo's silence even
savored to Tchelkache of the village. He was lost in thoughts of the
past and forgot to steer his boat; the waves had turned it and it was
now going out to sea. They seemed to understand that this boat had no
aim, and they played with it and lightly tossed it, while their blue
fires flamed up under the oars. Before Tchelkache's inward vision, was
rapidly unfolded a series of pictures of the past--that far distant
past separated from the present by a wall of eleven years of vagrancy.
He saw himself again a child, in the village, he saw his mother,
red-cheeked, fat, with kind gray eyes,--his father, a giant with a
tawny beard and stern countenance,--himself betrothed to Amphissa,
black-eyed with a long braid down her back, plump, easy-going, gay. . .
And then, himself, a handsome soldier of the guard; later, his father,
gray and bent by work, and his mother, wrinkled and bowed. What a
merry-making there was at the village when he had returned after the
expiration of his service! How proud the father was of his Gregori,
the moustached, broad-shouldered soldier, the cock of the village!
Memory, that scourge of the unfortunate, brings to life even the stones
of the past, and, even to the poison, drunk in former days, adds drops
of honey; and all this only to kill man by the consciousness of his
faults, and to destroy in his soul all faith in the future by causing
him to love the past too well.
Tchelkache was enveloped in a peaceful whiff of natal air that was
wafting toward him the sweet words of his mother, the sage counsel of
his father, the stern peasant, and many forgotten sounds and savory
odors of the earth, frozen as in the springtime, or freshly ploughed,
or lastly, covered with young wheat, silky, and green as an
emerald. . . Then he felt himself a pitiable, solitary being, gone
astray, without attachments and an outcast from the life where the
blood in his veins had been formed.
"Hey! Where are we going?" suddenly asked Gavrilo.
Tchelkache started and turned around with the uneasy glance of a wild
beast.
"Oh! the devil! Never mind. . . Row more cautiously. . . We're almost
there."
"Were you dreaming?" asked Gavrilo, smiling.
Tchelkache looked searchingly at him. The lad was entirely himself
again; calm, gay, he even seemed complacent. He was very young, all
his life was before him. That was bad! But perhaps the soil would
retain him. At this thought, Tchelkache grew sad again, and growled
out in reply:
"I'm tired! . . . and the boat rocks!"
"Of course it rocks! So, now, there's no danger of being caught with
this?"
Gavrilo kicked the bales.
"No, be quiet. I'm going to deliver them at once and receive the
money. Yes!"
"Five hundred?"
"Not less, probably. . ."
"It's a lot! If I had it, poor beggar that I am, I'd soon let it be
known."
"At the village? . . ."
"Sure! without delay. . ."
Gavrilo let himself be carried away by his imagination. Tchelkache
appeared crushed. His moustache hung down straight; his right side
was all wet from the waves, his eyes were sunken in his head and
without life. He was a pitiful and dull object. His likeness to a
bird of prey had disappeared; self-abasement appeared in the very folds
of his dirty blouse.
"I'm tired, worn out!"
"We are landing. . . Here we are."
Tchelkache abruptly turned the boat and guided it toward something
black that arose from the water.
The sky was covered with clouds, and a fine, drizzling rain began to
fall, pattering joyously on the crests of the waves.
"Stop! . . . Softly!" ordered Tchelkache.
The bow of the boat hit the hull of a vessel.
"Are the devils sleeping?" growled Tchelkache, catching the ropes
hanging over the side with his boat-hook. "The ladder isn't lowered.
In this rain, besides. . . It couldn't have rained before! Eh! You
vermin, there! Eh!"
"Is that you Selkache?" came softly from above.
"Lower the ladder, will you!"
"Good-day, Selkache."
"Lower the ladder, smoky devil!" roared Tchelkache.
"Oh! Isn't he ill-natured to-day. . . Eh! Oh!"
"Go up, Gavrilo!" commanded Tchelkache to his companion.
In a moment they were on the deck, where three dark and bearded
individuals were looking over the side at Tchelkache's boat and talking
animatedly in a strange and harsh language. A fourth, clad in a long
gown, advanced toward Tchelkache, shook his hand in silence and cast a
suspicious glance at Gavrilo.
"Get the money ready for to-morrow morning," briefly said Tchelkache.
"I'm going to sleep, now. Come Gavrilo. Are you hungry?"
"I'm sleepy," replied Gavrilo,
In five minutes, he was snoring on the dirty deck; Tchelkache sitting
beside him, was trying on an old boot that he found lying there. He
softly whistled, animated both by sorrow and anger. Then he lay down
beside Gavrilo, without removing the boot from his foot, and putting
his hands under the back of his neck he carefully examined the deck,
working his lips the while.
The boat rocked joyously on the water; the sound of wood creaking
dismally was heard, the rain fell softly on the deck, the waves beat
against the sides. Everything resounded sadly like the lullaby of a
mother who has lost all hope for the happiness of her son.
Tchelkache, with parted lips, raised his head and gazed around him
. . . and murmuring a few words, lay down again.
* * * * *
He was the first to awaken, starting up uneasily; then suddenly
quieting down he looked at Gavrilo, who was still sleeping. The lad
was smiling in his sleep, his round, sun-burned face irradiated with
joy.
Tchelkache sighed and climbed up a narrow rope ladder. The opening of
the trap-door framed a piece of leaden sky. It was daylight, but the
autumn weather was gray and gloomy.
It was two hours before Tchelkache reappeared. His face was red, his
moustache curled fiercely upward; his eyes beamed with gaiety and
good-nature. He wore high, thick boots, a coat and leather trowsers;
he looked like a hunter. His costume, which, although a little worn,
was still in good condition and fitted him well, made him appear
broader, concealed his too angular lines and gave him a martial air.
"Hey! Youngster, get up!" said he touching Gavrilo with his foot.
The last named started up, and not recognizing him just at first, gazed
at him vacantly. Tchelkache burst out laughing.
"How you're gotten up! . . ." finally exclaimed Gavrilo, smiling
broadly. "You are a gentleman!"
"We do that quickly here! What a coward you are! Dear, dear! How
many times did you make up your mind to die last night, eh? Say. . ."
"But you see, it's the first time I've ever done anything like this!
One might lose his soul for the rest of his days!"
"Would you be willing to go again?"
"Again? I must know first what there would be in it for me."
"Two hundred."
"Two hundred, you say? Yes I'd go."
"Stop! . . . And your soul?"
"Perhaps I shouldn't lose it!" said Gavrilo, smiling. "And then one
would be a man for the rest of his days!"
Tchelkache burst out laughing. "That's right, but we've joked long
enough! Let us row to the shore. Get ready."
"I? Why I'm ready. . ."
They again took their places in the boat. Tchelkache at the helm,
Gavrilo rowing.
The gray sky was covered with clouds; the troubled, green sea, played
with their craft, tossing it on its still tiny waves that broke over it
in a shower of clear, salt drops. Far off, before the prow of the
boat, appeared the yellow line of the sandy beach; back of the stern
was the free and joyous sea, all furrowed by the troops of waves that
ran up and down, already decked in their superb fringe of foam. In the
far distance, ships were rocking on the bosom of the sea and, on the
left, was a whole forest of masts mingled with the white masses of the
houses of the town. Prom there, a dull murmur is borne out to sea and
blending with the sound of the waves swelled into rapturous music.
Over all stretched a thin veil of mist, widening the distance between
the different objects.
"Eh! It'll be rough to-night!" said Tchelkache, nodding his head in
the direction of the sea.
"A storm?" asked Gavrilo. He was rowing hard. He was drenched from
head to foot by the drops blown by the wind.
"Ehe!" affirmed Tchelkache.
Gavrilo looked at him curiously.
"How much did they give you?" he asked at last, seeing that Tchelkache
was not disposed to talk.
"See!" said Tchelkache. He held out toward Gavrilo something that he
drew from his pocket.
Gavrilo saw the variegated banknotes, and they assumed in his eyes all
the colors of the rainbow.
"Oh! And I thought you were boasting! How much?"
"Five hundred and forty! Isn't that a good haul?"
"Certain!" murmured Gavrilo, following with greedy eyes the five
hundred and forty roubles as they again disappeared in the pocket.
"Ah! If it was only mine!" He sighed dejectedly.
"We'll have a lark, little one!" enthusiastically exclaimed Tchelkache!
"Have no fear: I'll pay you, brother. I'll give you forty rubles! Eh?
Are you pleased? Do you want your money now?"
"If you don't mind. Yes, I'll accept it!"
Gavrilo trembled with anticipation; a sharp, burning pain oppressed his
breast.
"Ha! ha! ha! Little devil! You'll accept it? Take it, brother, I beg
of you! I implore you, take it! I don't know where to put all this
money; relieve me, here!"
Tchelkache handed Gavrilo several ten ruble notes. The other took them
with a shaking hand, dropped the oars and proceeded to conceal his
booty in his blouse, screwing up his eyes greedily, and breathing
noisily as though he were drinking something hot. Tchelkache regarded
him ironically. Gavrilo seized the oars; he rowed in nervous haste,
his eyes lowered, as though he were afraid. His shoulders shook.
"My God, how greedy you are! That's bad. Besides, for a peasant. . ."
"Just think of what one can do with money!" exclaimed Gavrilo,
passionately. He began to talk brokenly and rapidly, as though
pursuing an idea, and seizing the words on the wing, of life in the
country with and without money. "Respect, ease, liberty, gaiety. . ."
Tchelkache listened attentively with a serious countenance and
inscrutable eyes. Occasionally, he smiled in a pleased manner.
"Here we are!" he said at last.